In the grass between them, his fingers flexed, his hand wanting to take hers. But didn't think it had the right.

So it didn't try—but it did close the distance between them. So his fingertips could barely brush hers.

"I've been a spy since I was sixteen," he said quietly. "I'm very good at what I do. It's not because I'm a good liar. It's because I know to rely mainly on truth.

"My record, my papers, my rank: lies. Most of what I've said, especially to you: real.

"Everything we've done…"

—and not done, because he couldn't bear it under auspices of a lie—

"…real.

"Too much so. For me."